Waxing lyrical

COULD there have been a better night to run up to the mast?
We started at sea level and griped and grumbled our way along the sea front, legs aching from Saturday and Tuesday and feeling our age.
JP appeared from behind a parked car and took a picture.
Up over Manor Cross we were still grumbling, and Occombe Valley Road didn't help, but then we climbed up through the woods and everything got better.
At the top the group had the option to cut back through Preston, go a little further down by Top Shops or go the whole hog and climb over Beacon Hill.
Nigel the Magician made the decision, and we headed for the big hill.
It was perfect. The light was low and the air was still and heavy.
To our right the moors seemed within touching distance. We could see Hay Tor and Hound Tor, and way out beyond them.
To our left as we reached the high brow, the soft South Devon cattle let us pass. They were silhouetted against a silver sea without a single ripple in it.
A tall ship sat in the middle of the bay, and oil-heavy tankers waiting for the world petrol markets to move seemed to hang in the stillness where you couldn't tell sea from sky.
To the east we could see right along the Devon coast to Dorset and Portland Bill rising in the distance. To the west more ships hung on the mirror of Start Bay.
We waited for a moment at the top to take in the view. Even Jamie the Legs and his fast group following behind looked up from their fast feet for a moment to enjoy the view.
Then we clattered down through the lanes again to Great Parks and Waterleat, St Michaels and the Big Tree, and a final, joyful sprint back to the car park.
Nigel the Magician consulted his wrist-mounted Goonhilly device and it said 8.5 miles.
It was a tough one, but I don't know a better place to run in.

Bondage Canoe Lesbians

Well, that's got your attention.
A busy weekend, with the Bank holiday still to go, but I'm working, so this Bank holiday doesn't count.
Friday night, and a great radio show with the Caerphilly Kid. We were led astray by people sending in requests. Normally we mock them and treat them with shabby indifference, but this week we ended up playing Chesney Hawkes, Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber alongside the usual fare. Oh well, if that's what the people want, who are we to deny them?
We were back on the radio on Saturday afternoon doing the sports show, and in among the football results we squeezed in Busted, Dolly Parton and REO Speedwagon. It was just one of those afternoons.
Mrs H has been helping out as bucket-and-sponge run-on physio at a couple of youth football matches this weekend. It's all part of her sports science course. This morning at Denbury it was sub-zero, and nearly 12 hours on, I'm still cold.
Yesterday we were talking about all those football matches you see where the physio never gets on. I hadn't finished the sentence before she was sprinting on to tend a nasty clash of heads, to be followed by a couple of ankle injuries and a bad back.
Oh well.
A great meal out with friends, too, at the local all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet restaurant. Having got there late there wasn't time for me to put the all-you-can-eat bit to the test. I had spare capacity but closing time beat me.
The ladies around the table were discussing being out on the town without their menfolk, and how much they were enjoying one another's company. They suggested going canoeing, and one suggested paddling around the Manacles.
I'm sure it was all quite innocent, but I never could resist a salacious headline.